Читать книгу Marriage For Real - Emma Richmond, Emma Richmond - Страница 7

FIGHTING back tears, Sarah watched the tall figure below her limp awkwardly down the steps. John Erskine Dane. Jed. Her husband. There would be a look of determination on his face, a grim fierceness not to give in to the pain in his leg; the weakness. How far would he get today? To the crossroads?

I love him, she thought. I love him so much it hurts—but loving him didn’t take away the pain of what had happened, the anguish. She didn’t blame him for the way he was behaving, of course she didn’t. None of it had been his fault. Tomorrow would be better, she promised herself. Tomorrow. Or the day after. And then everything would be all right.

As he disappeared from view, she stared out over the lake. Loch, she mentally corrected. Rain pitted the pewter surface, dripping forlornly off the naked trees. Be patient, the doctor had said. But it was six weeks now, nearly seven, and still the tears kept coming. No warning, no control, just suddenly tears, and that tight ache in her chest. Perhaps they should have returned to Bavaria to be with their friends, but she had thought it would be so hard to weather the sympathy, the kindness. She knew no one here, and no one knew her, or what had happened. They knew Jed, of course. He’d spent part of his childhood here.

‘Will you be wanting anything else, Mrs Dane?’

The soft Scottish burr took her by surprise, and Sarah gave a little start. Refusing to turn, she shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Reeves.’

‘I’ll be away, then.’

‘Yes.’

Sarah heard the door close and then resumed her contemplation of the loch. No monsters in this one. All the monsters were in her head. And if she didn’t pull herself together soon…Mrs Reeves probably thought she was a pale, weepy little thing; and felt sorry for Jed for having such a wife. Sarah wanted to tell her that she wasn’t really like this, but words seemed to have gone the way of her wits.

There would be other babies she tried to tell herself. Next time would be all right—but how could there be a next time when her husband slept in a separate room? How could there be a next time when he couldn’t seem to even bring himself to talk to her? Hold her? Kiss her? All the warmth and laughter seemed to belong to another life. And yet, she could remember how she had been. She could see herself so clearly: laughing, happy, confident. Young? Immature? she wondered. Perhaps, but for all her slenderness, her seeming fragility, she had always been so strong. Her light brown hair had curled enticingly round her small face, deep brown eyes always so full of mischief. She had always known what she wanted—and she had wanted Jed. Not in a dark, calculating sort of way. She hadn’t set out to woo him, trap him, but from the first moment she had seen him awareness had sprung between them, tension.

With three months left of the year she had taken off after gaining her degree, she had visited all the places she had so long wanted to see. With the funds generously given by her grandmother, she’d visited North America, the Far East, China, Columbia, Australia, and then returned to Europe. With her brown hair lightened almost to fair by the Antipodean sun; her skin tanned to gold, she’d flown into Bavaria—and found Jed.

‘I’ve won a what?’

‘Balloon trip.’

‘Balloon trip?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ The young man smiled at her, his blue eyes amused. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready?’ she echoed. ‘What, now?’

‘Certainly now.’

‘But I’ve only just arrived!’

‘I know.’ Taking her knapsack, he walked towards a blue Land Rover with the picture of a balloon on the side. A bemused Sarah slowly followed, and then burst out laughing. This was crazy!

‘Nervous?’ he asked as he helped her into the vehicle.

‘No,’ she denied. ‘Bewildered, astonished, flabbergasted…And how on earth do I know you’re who you say you are?’

‘Because in a moment you will see the field, and the balloon and all the people.’ He grinned, put the car in gear and drove off. Five minutes later he pulled into the field.

‘You can leave your kit in the car; it’s the support vehicle.’

Meaning, she assumed, that it was going to follow the flight. Still puzzled, still bewildered, she collected her camera, made sure her bumbag with her money and passport was safely strapped round her waist, and climbed down. ‘I didn’t buy a raffle ticket or anything…’ she began hesitantly.

‘No,’ he agreed, ‘but we had a spare place and we thought it would be nice to offer it to someone. We watched you get off the coach and we thought you looked like someone who might enjoy it.’

‘I will, but…’ With a small grin, a little shake of her head, she followed him towards all the activity round the slowly inflating balloon. It was a lot bigger than she’d expected.

She was introduced to the other passengers, the female navigator and the pilot, all of whom spoke excellent English, which was fortunate, because her German was virtually non-existent. They were given instructions on what to do in the event of this or that, including the position to adopt if there should be a crash-landing, and then, before she was sure she was ready, she was boosted into the basket. They were told to duck down as the burner was fired, which was very hot, she discovered. No wonder the pilot and navigator wore hats—she was sure she could smell singed hair! And then, without drama, just as the sun nestled against a distant peak, they began to rise. Gently, almost imperceptibly, the basket left the ground.

Allowed to stand once more, they all stared down at the rapidly retreating ground. No jerking, no sudden lurch, just a gentle rise that took them ever higher. Shadows lay along the fields and everywhere looked mystical as the slowly setting sun spread its dying light across the beautiful landscape. Well, she had wanted to see Bavaria, and this was certainly a very good way of doing so.

The driver of the support vehicle waved and they all waved back, like children. It was one of the most incredible experiences of her life. She didn’t think she had ever known such an utter feeling of peace. Apart from the intermittent flare of the burner, the whoosh of sound, the heat, everything was silent—and then a dog began to bark somewhere below, and she smiled. She didn’t want to talk to the others, and perhaps they felt the same, because they were all quiet. A time to think, reflect on the insignificance of human beings.

With very little room to move in the basket that was divided into four sections for the passengers and navigator, and a smaller section for the pilot, they all politely shuffled round so that each could get the best view, take their photographs. The pilot began to explain in both English and German where they were, their speed, pointing out distant towns and villages. But Sarah was barely listening as they floated in a sky that was that beautiful blue that sometimes occurred before darkness descended. Soaring across peaks and valleys, Sarah watched it all and thought she could stay up here for ever, free, unhampered, and tried to impress everything into her mind so that she would always have these feelings.

The hour they were allotted soon passed and as the sun dipped to the distant horizon they were instructed to put their belongings into the pouches provided before they began their descent.

‘Do you land just anywhere?’ she asked the pilot curiously.

‘Sometimes,’ he laughed. ‘Unable to control the wind, we go where we must. Look for a field where the crops have been lifted or cut. Somewhere smooth without power lines or too many trees. Most of the farmers or landowners know us, and we generally offer them a free balloon trip in thanks…’ Breaking off, he stared down in concentration, and then instructed them to assume the crash positions. He spoke to his navigator, who was trying to raise someone on her walkie-talkie, and Sarah heard something about a ten-knot wind before they were suddenly thrown sideways as they rapidly picked up speed. Unable to see from her crouched position, eyes wide, she waited for whatever was going to happen. A small bump, she assumed.

A tree thrashed against the side of the basket and then they hit something, and it wasn’t a small bump at all. The edge of the basket caught the ground first and Sarah stupidly assumed that was it, that they were down and relaxed her grip, only to be thrown violently against the man next to her as they rose again and then hit even harder. With the basket at an angle, her back pressed against the wicker side, and her arms braced, they bounced, hard, five times in quick succession before the basket finally came to rest—and fell over onto its side.

Lying on her back, bruised and disoriented, Sarah watched as everyone scrambled free and slowly relaxed her death grip on the safety rope. Someone squatted down beside her and she quickly turned her head. Green eyes examined her with almost hypnotic intensity—and time was suspended.

‘Are you hurt?’ he finally asked quietly.

‘You’re English,’ she stated stupidly.

‘Yes. Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hurt?’

‘No, English. Sorry. Shall I get out now?’

‘I think so.’

So solemn, so serious, this stranger with the devastating eyes. He looked cynical and mocking, experienced, older. Competent, as though he’d seen it all, done it all. Perhaps he had. But attractive, and she felt herself tremble. He also looked vaguely familiar.

He helped her to stand, and still she couldn’t break her gaze. Never in all her twenty-four years, she thought in bewilderment, had someone had this effect on her.

He nodded with an indifference that hurt, released her, and walked away. He had looked as though he didn’t like her. Puzzled, not only by his reaction, but her own, still standing by the basket, she continued to stare after him, and only gradually became aware that everyone, including several unknowns, were helping to squash the air out of the balloon. Leaning into the basket to retrieve her camera, she went to put it down safely, and then changed her mind and quickly snapped a picture of the man who had helped her. Feeling daft, glancing furtively round to make sure no one was looking, she took another one before going to help with the balloon.

‘You find him interesting?’ a soft voice asked from beside her.

Startled, Sarah turned to the fair-haired young woman standing next to her.

‘I am Gita,’ she introduced herself shyly, ‘from the nearby village.’

Smiling, Sarah shook the proffered hand. ‘Sarah Beverley, from England. And, yes,’ she finally answered. ‘I find him interesting.’

‘We also,’ she agreed. ‘His name is Jed. Our own very important claim to fame. John Erskine Dane. He is now a writer. We like him very much.’

Absently kneading the balloon fabric to get out all the air, Sarah tried the name out on her tongue—and then she remembered. John Dane. ‘This is John Dane’ from the Middle East, or Africa, or wherever. She’d seen him on the television covering wars, strikes, civil unrest. Crumpled, and sometimes unshaven, he’d stood before a camera and told them what he had seen.

‘Now he’s a writer?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Gita responded as both girls continued to watch the tall, dark-haired man who was working at the far end of the balloon. Gita with gentle affection, Sarah with interest.

‘He lives here?’

‘Yes, for about one year now. He was out walking when he saw the balloon landing and came to help. Perhaps one day we will put up a little plaque,’ she teased gently, ‘to say that he wrote one of his best-sellers in the calm and peace of our lovely Bavaria.’

‘Would he like that?’

‘No, I think not. He is a very private man, not one for—extravagance?’ she asked doubtfully, unsure of a word that was not in her native tongue. ‘He walks in the mountains,’ she continued fondly, ‘and sits in the café, smiles his quiet smile, and we do not bother him because we think perhaps he is writing in his head and it is best not to interrupt such important thoughts. So we smile and nod and he stays for a little bit more. You will not disturb him?’ she asked worriedly.

She would very much like to disturb him, Sarah thought, but not in the way Gita meant. ‘No,’ she denied absently. ‘I will not disturb him.’

Leaning her forehead against the glass, Sarah wondered, now, if she ever had. Certainly it had never been with the same degree that he had disturbed her. In fact he still disturbed her with his narrow, intelligent face, long-fingered hands that, when he touched her, could play such havoc with her emotions. Dark, thick, silky hair that always seemed to need cutting.

She never had finished touring Europe. She had stayed in the little Bavarian village, not because of Jed, she didn’t think—not at first, or not consciously—but she had stayed, and fallen in love. But she had always known, or thought she had known, that she loved him more than he loved her.

And now? Now, she didn’t seem to know anything, and soon it would be dark. They would make a pretence at eating, and then she could go to bed. Another day she had got through. What a wretched way to live your life, just getting through it.

She heard the soft snick of the back door closing and panic flared in her eyes. She wasn’t ready to face him, not yet, not now. She would go for a walk, she suddenly decided. Without waiting to deliberate the matter, she turned abruptly away, snatched her raincoat off the hallstand and hurried out the front door. Descending the steep steps, she turned in the direction Jed had taken. The soft drizzle soaked her hair in seconds, darkened her raincoat as she walked blindly down to the shore. Waves lapped agitatedly at the pebbles, little slaps of sound that beat counterpoint to her pulse. She tired so quickly now. Not enough exercise, not enough air in her lungs. Feeling dizzy, she halted, looked around for somewhere to rest, and seated herself on a large rock.

With her mind empty, her eyes unfocused, she stared blindly at the loch. You’re being so silly, Sarah. All you have to do is talk to him, explain how you feel. Ask him how he feels…And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She was afraid to ask him how he felt; what he was thinking, because she had the awful, mind-numbing suspicion that he no longer loved her.

An RAF jet tore through the air above her from the nearby base and nearly frightened her to death. She didn’t think she would ever get used to that thunder of sound that seemed to rip the air apart. Hand to her racing heart, she vaguely heard the crunch of pebbles as someone ran along the shoreline, the laboured breathing, but it wasn’t until a satchel thudded onto the ground beside her that she bothered to turn her head. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, was staring at her, all eyes and red face from his exertions. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. They examined each other in silence for a few moments, and then he hunched down onto his school-bag and wrapped his arms round his knees.

‘They’ll go in a minute,’ he said with almost humorous resignation.

Who? Who would go in a minute? Glancing beyond him, she saw two young girls, just hovering, but she didn’t want to get involved in this, didn’t want the distraction.

Breath still labouring, he muttered. ‘They are driving me insane!’

‘Who are they?’ She hadn’t meant to ask.

‘From school.’ He shrugged. ‘They want to know where I live.’ Picking up a handful of pebbles, he began throwing them towards the water. ‘And you can imagine what will happen then, can’t you? It’s bad enough now.’ He gave a gloomy sigh. ‘Are you the lady who lives with Jed?’

‘Yes. You know him?’

He shook his head, glanced furtively sideways to see if the girls were still there. ‘What time is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘Just after half-past three, I think.’

‘Will his leg get better?’

‘Jed’s? Yes.’

‘Mum said he was in a car crash.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly.

‘Is that why you’re sad? Mum said…’ Embarrassed, he broke off.

‘Mum said?’ she prompted.

‘That you cried a lot. Are you from London?’

‘No, Bavaria…Well,’ she qualified and wondered why on earth she was bothering, ‘from Surrey really, but I’ve been living in Bavaria.’

‘Where’s that?’ he asked without much interest.

‘Germany. I think they’re going.’

‘What? Oh, great.’ Scrambling to his feet, he hoisted his school-bag onto his shoulder. ‘See you.’

Yes, she thought almost blankly, see you, but it had been a start, hadn’t it? Talking to someone. With a gentle sigh, she got to her feet.

How had his mother known she cried a lot? Sarah wondered as she retraced her steps. Because Mrs Reeves had told her? Her, and everyone else in the small community? As she reached the road she saw that the street lamps had been lit, and now sparkled on the rain drifting silently across their yellow beams. The boy had gone, home to his own fireside, his mother. Had she ever followed a boy home from school? She couldn’t remember doing so; it had always been the other way around. Until Jed. Jed she would have followed to the ends of the earth. Still would. If he wanted her.

Grasping the rail, she hauled herself up the steep steps than ran parallel to the house. Opening the front door, she found Jed waiting for her.

‘You’re wet,’ he said quietly as she entered. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I met a boy—two girls were following him home from school.’

He gave a small smile. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘girls can be the very devil.’ Helping her off with her raincoat, he hung it on the rack.

Was she the very devil? she wondered as she followed him towards the kitchen. Perhaps that was what he had thought when she’d plagued him in Bavaria—no, not plagued, she hadn’t done that, but she hadn’t tried to hide the tension he’d generated in her.

She slowly sat at the kitchen table and watched her husband. His face was sad, his green eyes dull in this light. And the mouth that used to quirk in humour was straight now, uncommunicative. ‘Did it used to happen to you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Girls following you home from school?’

‘Sometimes. A long time ago. Are you really all right?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed and quickly changed the subject. ‘How far did you get? To the crossroads?’

‘Yes.’

She knew better than to ask how his leg was, if it was painful.

‘Shall we eat?’

She nodded, sat quietly and waited for him to dish up the meal that Mrs Reeves had left. She saw that he was trying very hard not to limp.

The accident should have brought them closer together, she thought sadly. The injury to his leg, the loss of their baby, she concluded in a little mental rush, should have strengthened their love, but it hadn’t. He’d closed himself off, whether from guilt, or anguish—or a realisation that he no longer loved her. Was that the reason? And she didn’t know, now, whether she had closed herself off because he had, or because she just couldn’t cope with thinking about it. He was such a strong man, so determined, so—self-willed. She wished she could be like that. Wished she could be like she used to be.

He looked after her, carefully tried to anticipate her needs, was kind and thoughtful, but not loving. Not once since the accident had he kissed her on the mouth. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, even her hand, but not her mouth. He trod around her as though she were made of glass, but he didn’t talk to her; didn’t—communicate. Only on a superficial level. But then, she didn’t communicate with him, did she?

Staring down at the stew and vegetables he placed in front of her, she felt the familiar lump form in her throat that always preceded a meal. It made it difficult to swallow. ‘Jed…’ she began with some half-formed idea that maybe now they would talk, but he quickly interrupted her, as though afraid of what she might say.

‘We’ve been invited to a party,’ he said quietly.

She looked up in panic.

‘I had a letter this morning. It’s a week on Friday. I’ll say we can’t go.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘But I suspect they won’t give up. It’s Fiona and Duncan’s fifth wedding anniversary. Old friends of mine. Eat your meal.’

And she tried, she did try, but after two small mouthfuls she lay down her fork. Feeling miserable and desperate, she got quickly to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’ Without looking at him or waiting for any comment, she hurried out and up to her room. Closing her door, she leaned back against it, felt the hot flood of tears to her eyes. They couldn’t go on like this. Five o’clock was no time to go to bed, but it seemed easier to lie alone in her room than sit with him downstairs not talking.

Feeling weak and shaky, she moved across to the old-fashioned dressing table and sank down onto the stool. Propping her elbows on the surface, her chin in her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair, that had once been so pretty, hung limp and dull round her small face. Her eyes looked too big, too dark, with bruised shadows beneath them. She looked gaunt and ill. And it couldn’t go on. Other women had lost babies…but it wasn’t only the baby, was it? It was Jed.